Eight

Sure, I get it. I'm sick of politics, too. And it's not like I want to blow up your Friendsgiving with an election analysis.

Then you say, "What's been going on with you guys?"

And I panic.

Why does every answer to this question feel so dangerously close to being political?

"Um" I squeak. “What’s been going on with us?”

"Yeah," you say. "Hey, aren't you in school for something?"

Oh, ok. Maybe I can talk about my old-lady-student life.

"Yeah, I’m loving school! I’m studying…”

...Hold on. I'm studying social work. So, I'm learning to view the history and policies of our country through the voices it oppresses. So, I’m being prepared for how the next administration is about to gut our country's social safety net. So, I can’t talk about this afterall.

That’s alright, I'll just shift subjects a little.

"I'm interning in an elementary school. The kids are so funny. Oh, you'll like this story: on my first day, I accidentally killed Santa."

Santa = Not Political

“What? How?” Now you’re laughing. Phew.

"So, I was trying to explain the meaning of 'wish' to a second-grader who only speaks Spanish. I was using my, you know, Duolingo skills, and...Wait."

A wave of premature grief hits me. Will I even know if Santa survived for this kid. Will I even get to see him after Christmas? My language faux pas is a lot less funny when I’m simultaneously bracing for a “mass deportation” that will include many of these kids I’ve come to care about.

"Never mind.”

We stand in awkward silence for a moment. Then you ask, "So how's writing going?

"I'm writing, of course...," I say. Then I pause.

Come on, I can do this....Just don’t mention how my books are being banned. Or the handful of death threats I've been DM’ed because people hate the trans and non-binary characters I include in my fiction. Just don’t say–anything real. Sure.

Except now that I'm standing here, trying to talk to you around my brain's active censorship of itself, I'm starting to wonder...

Do you agree with the book banners?

Do you agree with the DM senders?

...Do you condemn my whole career?

But I can't ask you any of that, of course. Not here.

"The kids are good?" you ask.

I swallow.

This should be the easy subject. We both love my kids, right?

No. I’m still panicking.

You’ll want to hear how they're doing in school...but not how we worry what will happen to their public schools once the DOE is defunded at the federal level.

You might ask how we feel about our eldest commuting via public transit…I'll tell you we talk about train safety, and pray you don't ask follow-up questions. Because, actually, these conversations most often focus on navigating, as a Black tween, in the presence of police officers. And, for me, that isn't politics at all. For me, it's the subject of my son's survival.

I’ll tell you about my youngest’s new obsession with artwork and how she's coloring on any scrap of paper she can find...but, wait. You'll probably bristle if I tell you that all this drawing is building towards her design and invention of a “flag for equal rights.” A flag she needs because, she decided, she no longer wants to pledge allegiance to the other one. You might say that's distasteful, or too serious, or just too much for a six-year-old, or that she shouldn’t be worried about the world in this way yet. And I'll want to tell how much I disagree, how what I feel when I see that flag is pure, strong, utter–

Jeez.

I can't even tell you I’m proud of my kid. I mean, you’d never get it. Because this particular pride exists in the context of this dark moment in history. And that dark moment, I'm pretty sure, is what you mean by politics.

So we'll stick to Christmas, I guess. You'll ask what my kids want, and I'll answer. But even that will be hard for me. Because what they actually want–more than toys or shoes or books–is for their world to feel safe. And I can't tell you why it doesn't.

Those are the rules at this party.